


Surrender is just a word

by AnOddSock



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blindfolds, Bondage, Cock Cages, Controlling Behaviour, Did you ask for feels with your porn? Probably not, Dom/sub, E-stim, I will pepper in the fact that there is angst, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Just a sprinkling of self doubt and hate, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Orgasm Delay/Denial, POV Dean Winchester, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Imbalance, Rope Bondage, Sex Toys, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-29 22:49:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20443850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnOddSock/pseuds/AnOddSock
Summary: Dean is desperate for something. Escape, or freedom, or release.It’s just ironic that the only way he’s been able to find it is putting himself completely at Cain’s mercy. Why is it that the only time he feels calmer and unhindered is when he’s bound to Cain’s bed enduring whatever Cain decides to inflict on him?





	Surrender is just a word

**Author's Note:**

  * For [troubleseeker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/troubleseeker/gifts).

> When ya girl drops a filthy porn gif in the group chat and then goes "This could be Cain with Dean" and your imagination runs away with you. And then the same friend needs studying motivation so you write them what was supposed to be a tiny ficlet and turns into 2K of smut....
> 
> [You can see the gif here](https://cdn02.bdsmlr.com/uploads/photos/2018/12/365270/bdsmlr-365270-tuhRWA42Zv.gif) but be warned it's very explicit.
> 
> This could be read as canon; Dean trying to find a way to cope with the Mark. But it could also be read as an AU; with, say, a 20 year old Dean who's stressed in trying to keep his family vaguely functioning, and make sure his little brother finishes high school with no problems, and finds an older man who'll do wonderfully awful things to him to give him some relief, and some other high to get addicted to.  
The latter makes the end, where Cain makes a threat, almost head into Dead Dove territory, but read it whichever way brings you most joy.

Dean is shaking, profusely.

It wasn’t long ago he was jerking, thrashing really, but with the way he’s tied down it was more like wobbling in place — jelly on a plate, a fish flapping without water.

He’s utterly stuck, but Cain has backed off, letting him breathe. Still trembling. Still with the ghost feel of electricity rebounding through nerves, hole still clenching where it was worked over.

He must be raw, right?

He knows he won’t be, it doesn’t work like that.

He feels pink all over, probably he is but he can’t see it, had his sight stolen what feels like hours ago. Damn blindfold. He rolls his head against the bed, wondering if it might slip loose. It doesn’t. Feels good though, the scratchy sheets against his cheek.

He does it again, holding back a moan. It’s a good distraction from everything down there; between his legs where he’s alight, sweaty and sensitive.

Cain’s hand has replaced the tool for now. Ghostly gentle touches to match the phantom memory of the e-stim turning him into a shuddering mess. Frothed up and bubbling like champagne shooting from a bottle. Except… well, not. Because his cock is locked away and his balls are circled tight in a way that only ramps the pleasure unbearably higher. He’s ready to blow but Cain isn’t going to light the fuse here, he’s only going to tease and tease and leave him wanting.

God how he wants.

His ankles pull on the ropes without him really meaning to, his legs are spread so wide and it’s always worse belly down and ass up, it hurts more. It’s just reflex, to test the restraints, see if they’ll give. They don’t give. Cain is too good, always too good. The rope chafes and that’s good too, let’s him know he’s here and he doesn’t have a choice and he can just let go.

Not that he does let go, that would be too easy. Always straining, even worn out and worn down he won’t stay still. His hands are stuck behind his back and he hates that and loves it all at once. It doesn’t feel human being forced down in this position because there’s nothing natural about it; and maybe that’s what he wants, not to be himself, not to be real.

A finger traces the inside arch of his foot and he screeches as it tickles and makes his toes curl. He lets out a muffled sound, burying his face in the bedclothes to stifle it.

“Feel good, boy?” Cain asks.

Dean shakes his head.

“Mmm, maybe you’re not ready yet if you can’t admit what you want, what you feel.”

Dean thinks he says please, to that. Thinks the word falls past his lips, but it gets caught in the sheet and there’s fabric between his teeth and he’s biting down and his hips roll against the bed and his cock _aches_ and…

Cain grabs for his chin and turns his head aside. “Speak clearly if you’re going to speak.”

“‘M ready,” Dean says defiantly, though lost somewhere in the throes of almost-agony and embarrassment it sounds weaker than he'd like.

Without warning there’s two fingers pressing in, in to his hole, and two others in to his mouth. He arches upwards, his hands clenching at his back as he squirms between the two points pressing down on his tongue and down on his prostate. So accurate, so heavy. Drool drips from his mouth around the digits and his cock leaks another bead of precome, wetting the bed below him and he feels it against his skin as he writhes.

There's nothing dignified about any of it, not how he must look, not how he feels, not how he reacts. He's only a pile of trembling meat and sticky fluids with the hot headedness to deny that he got himself into this mess willingly, that he craves it.

“You look a little worse for wear, you sure you won’t give in yet?”

Give in? Give in… give it up, let it go, beg for what Cain wants him to beg for. Fuck, no. Yes. Maybe?

The fingers retreat, and hard metal replaces the touch at his ass. It’s not on, yet. But he jerks away from it, groaning. He knows what’s coming.

“Gonna have t’ do better than that old man.”

His mouth runs without his say so. Like a kid throwing a tantrum he just _pushes._ Has to see the boundaries and just run at them blindly. _Blindly_. Like he is now, not a sight before his eyes or a thought in his head other than _no_.

He tries to use his hands to cover his ass, like a fool, like a desperate horny fool who doesn’t know what he wants. Because he wants this like he wants air. Like he wants beer and weed and sleep and nothing else.

Cain tuts at him, swatting his backside in reprimand. He tries to curl up, away from the blow. He’s embarrassed, he burns. He should do better. Never does though.

“Well, if you won’t yield.”

Then there’s a hand on his back, rough and steady and hard and it presses him down. He keeps his face turned sideways, gotta breathe, gotta get enough air. He senses more than he hears the click and the hum that means it’s on again, and he coils tight within himself waiting for the onslaught.

Fuck, here it comes. And here he will be, not coming.

He screams as Cain presses the wand to his swollen balls and trails it up. Back. And then… in.

It’s on higher, and higher and higher and longer and it won’t be long before he’s gone, utterly obliterated by it until he won't really know where or who he is. Cain uses his upper body to hold him still, and all he can do is scream and quiver and bounce and thrash as his nerves and skin explode in sensation.

He heaves, his ankles won’t close and his legs want to jerk and push away. But he’s stuck, and he’s pinned. Butterfly on a board, fly in a web, leaf in the wind. There’s nothing graceful though, he feels that. He’s a wreck. A human mess of red flesh and sobbing breaths.

Just how Cain likes him. Just how he needs to be.

His trapped balls bounce against the mattress as he jerks, and it’s just more sensations, just more of everything to help splinter him apart.

He yields eventually. Gives in. Asks and says and begs in the way Cain knows that means he’s reached his end. In the way that shows he's fought until there's no fight left and he's done, he's out. He's given all he has to give.

“Please, done, ‘m done, stop! Anything, please anything, stop please. You win, please.” And more, incoherent words that he’s not in control of, just like he’s not in control of anything else. He screams and begs until his throat is hoarse, as sore as the rest of him.

"You surrender?"

"Yes, yes I surrender!" It's easy to parrot back the words, and they mean nothing much at all compared to the desperate need to _make it stop._

The wand is taken away and be sobs _"Thank you thank you please so much thank you sir."_

He waits in trembling silence for Cain to do whatever comes next. A palm trails down his side and his leg like someone mapping the flank of an animal, a calming gesture, meant to soothe. His body is traced and touched, muscles soothed and sweat brushed away, and he doesn’t have any idea how long it lasts; how long he’s nearly entirely lost outside his own head, only existing, only tingling nerves and hot breath and warm body on filthy sheets.

“And what have you learned?” Cain asks, finally retreating.

He pants for long seconds, trying to remember how to think, and then how to put thoughts into words. He squirms as his required answers returns to his memory.

“My body is a tool, and tools can be used.”

“Good, very good. What else?”

He flops into stillness, limbs a dead weight. “Gotta… have t’ admit what I want, to take back control.”

“Anything else?”

There was something, something else. Cain’s lessons always seem so abstract, so far removed from reality, when he’s a quivering mess on the bed sheets.

He’s wispy and thin, grasping for what feels real.

Oh.

Feels.

Humiliation burns through his gut and he groans and turns his face into the privacy of the mattress, which earns him a slap to the back of his head.

“Tell me.”

“Feels good, when it hurts. Feels good, when it feels bad.”

“Yes, there, you have it. And I can do this for you, anytime you want.”

He nods, sighing as his ankles are unbound, and then his hands. Cain turns him over, and places a fleshlight into his shaky hand.

Dean, still blindfolded, shakes his head.

_No no no._ Not this too.

“You can come,” Cain whispers into his ear as he hears the cock cage clicking undone and the slow drag as it lifts away from where it’s abused his cock for days. “If you want.”

“What’s the catch?” he slurs.

“If you get a load off, I think I should too. I could go pay dear Sammy a visit, take him by surprise, push him up against a wall, or down on his knees. You get the idea."

Dean swallows, tiredly trying to decide if Cain is serious. Probably? He's been close enough before, close enough to snap a picture that he taunted Dean with, close enough that Dean could see what clothes Sam was wearing and what motel he was at.

It's not a risk he can take. He licks his lips. "I won't come."

"Oh really? What a shame for me, I think I'd enjoy some new young thing to break. But if you're sure, you get five minutes."

Five minutes. Five. Whole. Minutes. To touch his dick. To feel that pressure. To not be locked away. He's far too sensitive though, for it to really feel good.

He relishes it anyway, surfing that line between pain and pleasure. Biting his lip until it hurts and clenching every muscle he still has control of so he won't blow his load. Feels good when it feels bad, or so he’s learning.

It drags on forever.

It's over too quickly.

The fleshlight is snatched away and his blindfold too and he's shoved to the floor amongst the pile of his clothes.

"Good, you're learning control. I see you have potential after all."

_After all._ After all these times he's come begging to Cain drunk and messed up and looking for something he can't get anywhere else.

"I'm out of town for two weeks. I expect you'll be at my door the moment I return?" Cain chuckles to himself and Dean burns redder as he shuffles into his boxers, trying to will his erection away.

He nods, though, knowing he will be.

Cain throws him a water bottle and a little bag of pills. "In case you need to take the edge off while I'm gone. One pill at a time only. They'll make you float for a while."

Dean grunts his thanks as he sucks down water like a man dying of thirst. What he really wants right now is a beer. Well, what he wants besides emptying his balls anyway, and that one is off the cards.

He struggles weak limbed into the rest of his clothes, trying to find the headspace he needs to go back out into the world. To face Sam, to lie about where he's been.

Cain hums some wordless tune and at least doesn't tell him to hurry up. It's not exactly after care, but Dean doesn't think he'd want that anyway, and Cain isn't about to give it so what does it matter?

The cock cage is thrust into his hands at the door, before he leaves.

"Clean it, and yourself. I want a photo of it back in place within two hours." Cain pauses, gripping Dean's wrist in his giant hand. "I wonder if that would fit your brother." A hand under his chin lifts Dean’s eyes up to look into Cain’s startling blue. "You won't give me a reason to find out, will you?"

"No, sir."

"Alright then."

He gets a face full of wood for his trouble, the door shutting so close to his nose that he stumbles back in surprise. He's still a little drunk -- not on liquor that burned up hours ago — but on the high of it, the thrill of it, the desperation.

And he knows… he's desperate enough, and out of control enough, that he'll be back at this door in two weeks ready for more.

**Author's Note:**

> So, yay! I wrote another rarepair!  
I asked Trouble if she wanted it to end happily or with the threat of non-con, and you can see which she picked ;) my dark Kermit friend always picks the <strike>worst</strike> best option.
> 
> Let me know what you think, I love your comments forever and appreciate every kudos <3


End file.
